Glissando 99
by Marsh of Sleep
Summary: A place to dump strange one-shots. 'Shut Your Eyes And Sing To Me': "We're gonna have to do it in the library. Restricted section. Behind the counter." What does it say about the drive of a man when he plans a sexual encounter before the present one is even completed? For SoMa NSFW Week 2014
1. Motherbrain

Author stuff: I told CV that I would post something today.

Warning: Really old. Only vaguely edited. No matter how much crack I've warned you about in other fics, this one takes the cake. This is blatant laziness and misuse of characters that do not belong to me. EXTREMELY OOC, RIDICULOUS, AND OTHERWISE POINTLESS. I do not expect anything good to come of this. I just wanted something funny to write because Amp is damn depressing.

I do not own Soul Eater, Metroid, Fruit of the Loom, or any other companies/franchises I may have referenced.

Maka is nerdy. That is all.

* * *

**Motherbrain**

Maka hasn't even finished her dinner this time.

His tie is loose and hanging at his shoulders like a silken, steamrolled snake. His hand ruffles his hair, destroying all evidence of how carefully he had styled it about an hour ago. His suit jacket is already shrugged off and sloppily tossed on the counter.

Soul's in a foul mood. She can tell, because she hadn't heard the front door open at all. He does things quietly and softly when he's displeased. Maybe he overcompensates while trying to remain calm- an attempt to not destroy inanimate objects and innocent bystanders in a flash of bladed frustration.

Maka is grateful for this. However, she kind of wishes that he would just let go and stab a hole in a wall once in awhile. Maybe it's her violent tendencies showing, but she thinks it would be justified on days like today.

It _is_ Saturday evening. In fact, nighttime hasn't even fully arrived. On average, normal people their age would be partying or seeing movies or participating in the illustrious act of 'sucking face'.

Maka could say any number of things like "But you just left," or "That was fast," or "Did you forget something," but they've had all those conversations before, and they hadn't ended well. The only outcome had been realizing her mouth is large and really careless when she doesn't read his blank face properly.

In her defense, it's really hard to read between the lines when there aren't any words on the brooding, lifeless page. But Maka Albarn reads (a lot, actually), and over time, she's become fluent in Evans Overcompensation Face. And probably a lot faster than anyone else could have! She's his friend and partner and meister and roommate and however many other connections she has with him, after all.

Taking the napkin from her lap and tossing it lightly next to her meal, she pads to the kitchen and fixes him a plate of food. Maka always makes extra. Not too much- not enough to make him able to accuse her of being eternally prepared for his **failure-** just a little bit to keep him from going to bed melancholy _and_ hungry. She places it on the table where he usually sits, returns to her seat, and resumes her dinner. She doesn't offer or suggest or demand he sit and eat, only leaving a door open that he can step through should he so desire.

He has the grace to not look miserable. In fact, he looks pretty damn good. The red dress shirt suits him. Unfortunately, he looks terrible while spinning fettechini on his fork in false serenity.

Maka knows that deep down, she's relieved that he's back. It's a terrible feeling to become increasingly pleased the more his dates _suck. _He doesn't deserve the continual disappointment no matter how she may feel about it. Soul is a good guy- he's easy to live with, dependable, observant- so he really oughtn't be lonely.

She refrains from whistling happily.

Soul's relationships (if they can be called such) are short-lived, lasting three or four days_ at best._ And that's if he _doesn't_ walk out on the first date. He's too picky! They're either too dumb, or wearing too much lipstick, or too clingy- it's like the man has a whole book of excuses that he picks from at random.

Then there's the occasional blind date in which the woman gets a closer look at his face and decides he's _scary._

Maka assumes that tonight's failure was brought out by some form of the latter, if the way he keeps his eyes hidden behind a casually-placed hand at his brow is any indication. Soul's eyes are intense, brought out into focus by his shirt, which she thinks he does on purpose. He probably had smiled a lot too, forcing whoever his date was to come face to face with a carnivorous and feral set of pearly intimidation.

He says something that makes her choke on garlic bread. "Excuse me?"

"I said: Do you ever wish your tits were bigger?"

She glares at him while trying to wash down the bread with water. She knows where this conversation is headed. After mastering Evans Overcompensation Face, it's become easy to understand his sideways, tangent-filled dance with words.

He's self-conscious. Maka runs through several scenarios in which this current conversation could end up with her saying something _stupid_ like how he has nothing to worry about because at least one person on the planet wouldn't mind getting into his pants, even if she is romantically inept and can only show her appreciation of his existence by accidentally turning his socks pink when she does the laundry.

But Maka is his friend. Friend. The girl-friend-but-not-_girlfriend. _Neutral territory. She's gotta keep it platonic, because he trusts her to, right? Even if he brings up her tits at the dinner table. Even if he uses her hairspray before he goes out on a date with some bimbo.

Maka is tempted to kick his shins under the table, but she's not wearing any shoes and she knows that shins are detrimental to unprotected phalanges. She also knows that putting up with his lack of tact is what she should do as his_ friend._

What was the question again? Larger mammary glands. Right. Uhg. "Sometimes," she answers truthfully, if not grudgingly. His hand slowly falls from his face to rest lightly on the table, his blood eyes fixed on her face in careful attention. Maka's feet rub together under the table in uncomfortable agitation under his scrutiny.

He smirks. "Only sometimes?"

She swallows her displeasure at the jab towards her very plank-like chest. Maka gives him a sour look. "Your personal preferences aside, yes. Only sometimes." Her gaze fumbles to her mostly-empty dinner plate as she speaks. ...Stupid eyes that she can't look at directly. She ought to gouge them out and- "I think it would be nice to not be mistaken as a ten year old when I'm nearly double the age. I think it would be nice to have someone be interested in me for reasons other than lolicon."

She hears a small scoff from him, which lightens her heart a little despite the conversation. "But?"

"But," Maka says with a sigh, "I also think it would be annoying to have people stare at my chest all the time. It's overrated. And what would I do while wielding you?" she rhetorically asks, pointing her fork at him for emphasis. "They'd get in the way and I'd be top-heavy because my center of gravity would be-"

"OKAY, okay. I get it. No need for the physics lesson." Soul puts a hand to his forehead and rubs the bridge of his nose tiredly.

Well he _asked! _"Anyway, it's probably better to just wait and find someone who's..._ fine_ with how I am already." She stabs the last noodle on her plate with a little more force than she had wanted.

Soul hums a little- an introspective grunt of a noise. He swabs some sauce off his plate with a crust of bread. "How I am already, hm?" He chews dispassionately. "Kinda hard to advertise, you know? 'Seeking female that is fine with demon face.'"

He says it lightheartedly, or as lighthearted as someone concentrating on not being displeased can, but Maka's fork clatters painfully against her plate.

"What? Are you serious?"

Silence.

"Who was she?" Maka stands out of her chair, offended. "I'll show her a **real** demon!"

Soul sighs, exasperated. "Noooo, you can't kill her, Maka-"

"Oh come on. 'Demon face?' She's not even original! _Clearly_ you're more shark than-"

"Not everyone has your vocabulary, Dictionary," he drawls at her with a scowl, standing to take his plate to the sink.

"That's _Miss_ Dictionary to you, and at least _I_ don't insult my dates!"

Not like she's ever had any, but that fact doesn't make her statement any less true. Warning bells ring very, _very_ distantly in the back of her mind, chiming to alarm her of the loudmouth territory she's treading in, but she only hears Soul groan while he places his plate in the dishwasher rack.

"It's not her fault," he chides. "When 'Star introduced us, I had shades on and a hat and shit. She didn't know any better."

Maka's mouth slides open, confounded by his words floating to her from around the corner. "Are you...what are you saying? That you're at fault because of what- _false advertising?_ Is that what this is?" She brings her plate to the kitchen, staring at him while he dries his hands on a towel. "Don't _defend_ her."

"Just drop it, Maka," he says, and slides around her and down the hallway to his room. She hears his belt buckle jingle as he walks away, preemptively undressing. His door shuts with a tiny, composed click.

Maka harrumphs to herself in the kitchen, rinsing her plate. He just has bad luck, is all. Any date that's set up by that blue-haired _idiot_ is bound to end poorly. He shouldn't wallow around and be self-conscious because the average, IQ-allergic, walking vagina doesn't realize he's rather _devastatingly handsome._ All he needs is to find the right girl and-

**...Wait.** Her wet hands come up to slap on her face in horror. What is she_ thinking?_ Maka's not sure whose side she's even _on_.

She should just wait quietly until he gets over it and keep her big mouth shut. But damn it all, she had even ironed his stupid slacks so he could go on a date with someone _else_- the least he can do is show a little self-respect or frustration or _something. _

It's a terrible idea, but Maka decides to pull the cork off his bottled-up dejection. She's supposed to make him feel better- not make him angry! But all she knows is that she just wants him to not be so damn despondent and lonely. And to slap him. Mostly the latter at the moment, but the former is important too.

It's statistically proven that bottling one's emotions is unhealthy, right? And she's read that cornered animals will lash out when provoked, and he's kind of like an animal anyway!

Deciding, however vaguely, that her reasoning is sound and just, Maka stomps down the hallway, drying off her face with an arm, and throws open his bedroom door, catching her weapon in the middle of sliding a shirt over his head. He sighs irritatedly through threadbare cotton.

Maybe she shouldn't slap him. He definitely wins in the muscular structure department.

Pulling the collar over his nose and chin, he frowns at her. "Do you mind," he growls. She stubbornly frowns back, not willing to give up just yet, so he grumbles and turns away, pulling on faintly plaid, faded sleep pants over his boxers. "Look, it wouldn't have worked out," he says to her silence as he ties the drawstring at his waist. He turns to face her again, his voice superficially joking. "She's from _out of town._ Imagine her reaction if she had found out what I do for a living."

Maka feels her lips press in a tight line, but she doesn't let up on the staring contest. Soul's eyebrows bunch together in irritation. She takes this as progress.

"What do you want me to say? That she's a cunty bitch?"  
"...Yes, actually!"

**"Fine.** She's a cunty bitch," he tonelessly says. He crosses his arms over his chest, glaring back at her, eyes alight with displeasure. "Nothing changes, no matter what I say about it. I scared her with my 'demon' face. End of story."

"Okay, so when are you gonna get angry about it?"

Soul looks at her like she's offered him a plate of decapitated heads for dinner. She takes this as more progress. "What?" His shoulders slowly straighten behind him as she marches in his room. "There's no point-"

"It'll make you feel better," she reasons, not taking her eyes off of his. She purposely invades his space, attempting to get any part of his emotions to leak out.

"Are you insane?"

"Only because you drive me there," she remarks, and he glowers at her when he realizes that the statement isn't exactly an exaggeration. She takes a finger and rather purposely jabs it into his stomach, harassing him. "Get angry!"

She's rather pleased with herself when he brushes her hand away, almost crushing it in his palm like an annoying wasp repeatedly stinging him. Maka's even more proud when he starts talking in more tones than deadpan, his teeth baring and gleaming. "I **am** angry, damn it. I'm just trying to not take it out on you, though you're making it_ really difficult, _with your loudmouth smart-assed bullsh-"

"Yell at me! Do it!"

He looks at her, half skeptical and half at wit's end, and then he scoffs exasperatedly, floodgates opening. "FINE, YOU...CRAZY BROAD! Fuck! You're so backwards! You don't make _any_ sense!" Soul yanks her hand that's trapped in his, forcefully pulling her close until she stumbles into his chest, her toes stubbing into his. She has to look almost straight up to keep in contact with his furious glare. "How's this: Don't barge into my room any time you feel like it, don't _poke_ me like a _god-damned _monkey in a_ cage_, and don't talk about my 'personal preferences' like you** know me!"**

Maka is slightly derailed when he confronts her about their conversation at the dinner table, unaware that she had apparently offended him. But this is good, right? This is great! He even raised his voice! Instinct from thousands of bicker-matches takes over as she continues to egg him on. "Know you?" The bottom of Maka's chin rubs uncomfortably on his shirt. "Of course I know you! We resonate fifty percent of any given week! I know **everything.** I know what color your boxers are today."

"Only because you barged into my room while I was changing-"  
"The ones yesterday were blue and green Paisley-"  
"They're. Amoebas!"  
"Believe what you want, but Fruit of the Loom does not cater to the public demand for microscopic germs. It's called Paisley!"

Soul pushes her away from him, howling and cringing. Hands now free, his fingers are taut and flexed in his agitation while he rants. "The fact that you can puke so many god damn syllables in less than three seconds PISSES ME OFF. Why are you filled with such useless information?"

"I read my books out loud. I retain information bett-"  
"You're so _**nerdy!**_ If you dug a god-damn hole with your uncoolness, you'd make it to China, and then _careen out the bloody galaxy-"_  
"Oh for Death's sake! You can _not_ dig to China from Death City! You would end up in the _Indian Ocean-"_  
"And you know what? If you know me so damn well, then let's address this shit again: What tits do I like?"

"Uhh," she sarcastically stalls, thumb and forefinger pressed to her chin in intense thought as if this weren't the easiest question since 'A sound soul dwells within a sound insert-answer-here'. "Ridiculously huge ones?"

"Wrong," he loudly says, flipping her off with one hand.

Maka puts a palm to her (flat) chest in fake apology. "Oh, my mistake. **Gigantic ones."**

Now flipping her off with both hands, he exclaims, **"Wrong!"**

"Really?" She's honestly surprised, their bizarre argument thrown off-track. "But what about you spewing like a carotid artery whenever your head is shoved in-"

_"What is with all the trivia!"_ He groans, spine contorting backwards as he mashes his palms to his face. He appears to be making a desperate plea to heaven.

"Hey- it's important stuff. Why do you think I always aim for the neck with your scythe?" Maka says matter-of-factly, poking at her neck in the proper place. "Why don't you learn something and freakin' evolve."

It's Soul's turn to get in her personal space. Maka stands her ground as he comes up close enough to jab a finger to her forehead like she had done to his chest. "What-the FUCK-ever! Store this in your motherbrain vault of pointless information: I like all tits. In fact, I'm fine with tits like_ yours,"_ he snarls, taking the finger pointed at her forehead and prodding her left _nipple _with it, "-'cause they're fun to _**fit in my mouth!" **_He ends his tirade by nudging what little flesh her breast contains upwards for emphasis.

Maka squeaks. Well, she really only has herself to blame for his state of completely frazzled anger, so she shakily says, "...N-n-noted," while her face contributes more heat to the Nevada desert than the sun has in the past twenty years. There's a bloated silence while he curiously looks at her face, and then his hand, and then somewhere very far away as he realizes what exactly has just happened.

Soul's hand hurriedly flies off of her like he's been burned. "Fuck a duck," he swears with a grimace.

_Shut up shut up shut up,_ "Will you be poking it in the breast as well?" _Damn it!_

Her weapon glowers at her, clearly pinning the blame of whatever has just transpired on her. "... I really need a beer." He skirts around her and out the door, and then awkwardly (but not silently) shuts it after him, keeping her inside.

In a sharp and ringing silence, Maka stares at the space Soul had recently vacated. A lot of words had been thrown around with reckless abandon, and she takes a moment to breathe and sift through the important facts:

He had completely dodged talking about his date.  
He thinks she's some kind of walking Jeopardy game show.  
He's in denial about men's underwear fashion.  
He actively tries to not yell at her, when she has the presence of mind to keep her mouth shut.  
_He's fine with her breasts like one is fine with a certain flavor of candy._

Fine. The word brings up a nagging piece of information. What was it? Maka's eyes widen as the doorknob to Soul's bedroom door slowly turns, stops, and turns back. She hears a grumbling; something that sounds like "Get it over with, idiot," and then the barrier swings open, revealing her weapon who tries glare at her but ends up merely eying her warily.

Maka does an internal jig, despite the six or fifty-six ranks of weird that have just occurred, because Soul's face is contorted into an embarrassed, lip-pursing, agitated pout, which is a big improvement over bottled-up brooding. Her weapon stands in the doorway to his own room, halfway refusing to enter. She had inadvertently alienated him out of his own space. The beer can in his hand clicks and hisses- it's casual sound serving absolutely no use as an icebreaker to the awkwardness that swamps them.

"Feel better now?" she offers hesitantly, trying hard to ignore the steady thump-thumping of her stressed heart.

"Please get out," he says to the ceiling.

She wants to ask why he had shut the door and trapped her in here if he wanted her to leave, but she holds her tongue for once. However, her silence lasts only a small time, because as he steps aside from the doorway and she passes him, her tongue rebels.

"If it's any consolation, I'm fine with demon faces," she blurts.

Well, at least she hadn't been poking him in the _eyeball_ when she said it. Maka controls her legs, feeling his eyes on her as she walks away calmly, not sprinting down the hall and out the door and off the planet to Galaxy Uncool like she desires. She risks a glance as she turns the corner into the kitchen to clean up after dinner.

Soul nonchalantly nurses his disgusting beverage while his facial complexion races to catch up with hers.

Shielded by kitchen walls, Maka thumps her forehead repeatedly with her fingertips, berating her stupidity before attacking the dirty pots and pans on the stove. If anyone ever needs an amazing friendship completely alienated, she is ready to tackle the job! Idiot! How much more pathetic can she sound?

"What about shark teeth."

The sponge in her hand makes a disgusting wet slap as it falls from her startled hand. Soul, red-faced and a shade too twitchy to fake calm, leans on a counter. He eyes the yellow and green sponge on the floor, and then her face.

Maka does not want to think about what her face may look like. She bends down to pick up the sponge, rinsing it before continuing her war on food particles. Soul takes a loud sip of his beer.

"W-what about them?" Slosh slosh. Scrub. Rinse. Set pan in dishwasher. Avoid thinking about conversation directly.

"Do they bother you?"

Risking a glance over her shoulder, she spies him staring at the top of the can in his hand, eyebrows furrowed. "Do you want them to bother me?" Maka hesitantly asks, though it's not the question that she had wanted to say. Soul looks at her abruptly, hearing her and hearing the words under it, for he had invented the dance of beating-round-the-bush.

"...No. I don't," he says, the open and unguarded expression on her face making her almost drop the sponge again.

Maka hurriedly washes the pot she had boiled noodles in. "W-w-well too bad. It absolutely bothers me, because you take twenty freakin' minutes to brush them in the bathroom. Do you know how much floss you go through in a month? And don't even get me started on mAAH!"

Soul sets his beer on the counter, one (cold!) hand clamping on her arm closest to him, turning her to face him while the other grabs her opposite wrist to keep her in place.

"Mouthwash," she ends, lamely.

He has that blank face again, and it speaks in a dialect of Overcompensation she is unfamiliar with.

"Are you sure you're fine with ...this?" But he gestures towards nothing, and she can only assume he's talking about his appearance. Like it matters. Like she doesn't have problems finding anyone else attractive because he set the standards so damn high for her.

"Shouldn't I be asking that?" When Soul answers her with a perplexed look, her motor mouth takes over. "I mean, even if I managed to make it past the four-day-girlfriend record, I look like a little boy, I don't wear makeup, I'm nerdy, I buy my underwear in packs of six because they're cheap, and then the little waistband unravels and gets stuck in your nice shirts' buttons so they fall off, and then you get angry because I washed my panties with your dress shirts, and then angrier because neither of us know how to sew on buttons, I'm really sorry about that, by the way..."

"Orange," he says, grimly.

Bewildered, she spits out, "What?"

"The buttons. You sewed them on in _bright orange._ It looks awful. My dates ask about them, because they're such an eyesore, and then I explain some girl's panties got tangled with them, which pisses them off, and all I can think about is some nerd that's sitting at home with too much dinner on the stove."

Maka's eyes widen in mortification. He had apparently noticed the food surplus all along. "Ah-"

"Ah," he teasingly echoes back at her. His hands gently slide down her arm and wrist to grasp her fingers. "So. Seeing as how we're both fine with the other- shut **up,** yes, I heard your tirade, you don't need to repeat it- ...maybe we should date. Or something."

Maka experiences what she believes to be her heart doing a belly flop into a pool, which then proceeds to flail, climb out of the pool, and then jump back in again. "I-I reeeally don't know how to do that," she grinds out, attempting to neither hyperventilate nor punch him when his fingers lace between her soapy, wet ones.

"Date? Miss Dictionary admits to not knowing something?" Soul grins lopsidedly.

No matter how loudly her blood roars in her ears, how terrified she is of possibly being dumped by this irreplaceable weirdo, and how irritating his snickering is, she's still quite happy to see him smile, and to be the source of it.

Her mouth has always worked a little faster than her brain, and it drags her forward, meekly pecking at Soul's.

"Ah-" he says, eyebrows arching in pleasant surprise.

"Ah."

The next kiss is informative. The next kiss is a repeat, and thus, boring. The next kiss is downright fascinating, and she would have studied it all evening, ready to add her findings to the very blank subject in her mind labeled "The Act of Sucking Face", but she pushes him away with disgust.

"BLEAH."  
"What! What's wrong, what did-"  
"You taste like _beer._ Go brush your teeth!"

After a bewildered moment of silence, Soul bursts out laughing, obligingly turning his head away at her grimace. "Okay, but it'll take me twenty minutes," he manages to say, his fingers squeezing hers. He snorts again when her face lights up in embarrassment.

"...Then just mouthwash is fine."  
"Is it?"

Maka growls, exasperated, twisting out of his grasp and shoving him towards the bathroom. "Just go DO IT, or I'll do your laundry!"

"How cruel- the amoebas did nothing to _you."_

She tells him that it's called 'Paisley', and to "Hurry up, I wanna be your girlfriend, already."


	2. Gunmetal

**Gunmetal**

He's not really that surprised after the initial shock of seeing Elizabeth Thompson casually place a hand over her midriff and _smiling._

When Maka asks him in the privacy of their own home why he hadn't seemed nearly as shocked as everyone else, he leans back from the dining room table, balancing on two of his chair's legs, and muses for awhile before answering.

Liz is generally a wuss, and way too girly for his tastes, but occasionally, when shit hits the fan, she's strong. When she gets that hardness in her eyes- that gleam when she is forced to wield her sister and defend their meister in a tight situation- Soul thinks he sees a shadow of what she might have been, once. Back when she had to fight for her life on the streets. Back when the only thing keeping her sister fed was her own backbone.

He thinks that maybe, in another life, if he had known her back then, they might have hooked up. He likes that hardness, that steely determination. As it is now, Kid spoils her. She's gone soft and pampered, endlessly filing nails and plucking eyebrows and showing off the edges of lace around her latest bra over the neckline of her shirt. He's not attracted to that stuff very much, even if all those things help make her exponentially more sexy than she already is.

When it comes down to it, Liz Thompson's fire has been brought down to a comfortable simmer.

And Soul wouldn't want to change that for her, because she's earned the right to be afraid of ghosts and to be babied by her baby sister and to have a place to call home. He wonders if she feels the same- if that, if she feels any attraction towards him at all, the idea of who he used to be is what intrigues her, and not who he is now.

So he respects her, which is as close to being interested in her as he can be, because being in love with each other's pasts is uncool and probably offensive to both parties. They've both shed previous lives to be here, finally finding a place where they can simply breathe. Through this, they have an unspoken understanding of one another.

She sometimes jabs at him with an elbow, wondering aloud why anyone would give up the fancy life. He had responded to her on one of these occasions, when everyone else was out of earshot, with, "A mansion doesn't love you back." To which she had looked at him a moment, and then ahead where her sister and friends and both of their meisters stroll on ahead. She gave a short nod. "Mm. You have to fill it with people," she replied. And he saw no trace of gunmetal in her blue eyes.

So he's happy for her, and not really that surprised. She had probably planned on popping out crazy, complusive, half-god babies long before Soul had ever had that tiny conversation with her.

He sits forward again in his chair, watching Maka watching him, waiting for his response. "She got Kid to finally give her what she wanted." Maka's face contorts skeptically, somewhat put off by his insinuative undertones, but she's smart. That's one reason why he likes her, though that's for another time to mull over. She catches on to his hidden meaning quickly, after reading his face.

"Family." She answers, determined eyes shining with understanding. Her gaze falls away from him and turns inward with reflection.

"Do you want one?" He asks, hoping to sneak underneath her iron-clad defenses while she's unaware.

"I have a family," she murmurs.

He knows she's not talking about her mother. Her father is probably included with all of their friends, though. "Welp," he says, sliding to his feet and heading towards his bedroom. "If you ever want to make it bigger, I'll give you what you want."

Looking over his shoulder just as he shuts his bedroom door, he sees shock etched on her face, and underneath that, the strong, knowing gleam in her eyes. He likes it very much.


	3. First of May

This little slice of ridiculousness is brought to you by the Souleaterpromptarchive tumblr.

* * *

It started out with a wild goose chase. The birds were sleeping all around the junk pickup truck they had locally rented. The vehicle alone was so hideous and poorly maintained that she could tangibly feel Soul's coolness seep away in disgust, but the geese just made it worse.

Soul unhappily shoved his motorcycle's ignition key into his pocket. He should've been happy they found something else to drive, because his bike driving down the bumpy, unpaved roads would be a recipe for disaster. He wasn't.

Mostly because the rusty truck was older than the two of them combined. He was also probably unhappy because she shoved him to the passenger side and nominated herself to drive.

But before all of that, there were geese. Big, fat, violent geese were the aggressors of at least sixty percent of the goose-chasing before Maka and Soul could even get in the cab of the truck. Soul pulled feathers out of his unruly hair while Maka tried to remember Driver's Education classes. Geese honked at her while she honked back with the steering wheel.

"Why can't we just fly?"

"'Cause it's Kansas, Soul. If you wanna fly into a hail storm, or tornado, or lightning, or-"

"There aren't any _clouds."_

Maka happily ignored her weapon. The truck's transmission noisily clunked into drive.

Her partner wistfully stared after his parked bike as Maka drove down the bumpy road out of Podunk Town, whose actual name she couldn't recall, population two-fifty-seven. "What the hell kind of souls are _out here_ for a pre-kishin to eat?" Soul complained.

* * *

Actually, the P-K looked rather well fed, which was surprising. Once a human female at some point in the past, it had turned into a very rotund, shimmering connoisseur of innocent souls. And smart. Too smart. With a habit of lighting explosives.

When an inch and a half of the end of her right pigtail was singed off from a close call, Maka admitted to herself that she had poorly judged this monster; maybe even go so far to say that she had imagined something a bit more stereotypical of this part of the country, which was a jerk move on her part, and not to mention irresponsible because her life and her partner's were on the line due to her error.

In any case, the pre-kishin was not some scarecrow from the Wizard of Oz, but a self-taught pyromaniac who had learned too many things about Shibusen and developed a taste for _weapons_ , of all things. The P-K had been stealthily hunting the souls of unregistered weapons like a swine smelling out truffles. The victims had probably not even known about their powers- just little kids plucked out of their beds. Suddenly, the ranking of this three-star mission made sense.

It was clear that Soul was the first powerful weapon this P-K had ever seen. Its desire for his soul seemed to strengthen its resolve even after having a chunk of its body cleaved off.

It fought to separate Maka from her weapon and, after the aforementioned hair-singeing incident, succeeded.

"Maybe she was one of those people who likes living on the edge?" Maka called out to her partner, who was catching his breath and pressing his back against the side of the truck for cover.

He swatted stray corn stalks away from his face, irritated. _"What?" _ he mouthed, confused and not wanting to give away his hiding spot, as if the one solid object in the middle of thirty acres of corn wasn't conspicuous enough.

Another explosion rattled the earth and Maka ducked as corn husks and debris rained down. "You know- people who eat blowfish and stuff. Stuff that could potentially kill them!"

"That's nice and everything, but I still don't wanna be EATEN."

_"I can smell you, little knife~"_

Soul spluttered, offended. "Knife!" He stood abruptly, turning to the pre-kishin, and snarled, "I'm a _scythe_ , you shitface!"

So attuned were they that he could transform and arc across the distance to Maka even without having seen her extend her open palm to him. Some part of her wanted to note the irony of wielding a scythe in a field of corn, and another part of her wanted to argue that, no, scythes were traditionally used to harvest grain and hay, not corn, but both of these parts were swatted away by Soul in the back of her mind saying, "Shut the fuck up and _dodge."_

Maka dodged. Sliced. Parried. Stumbled once long enough for Soul to get licked by the monster.

"**FUCK** no!" Soul cringed in her hands as Maka retreated a few yards. He shifted partway out of his handle and disgustedly wiped slobber off his blade. "That is beyond gross."

She wondered if the farmer who owned these fields would be angry that there were craters where his crops used to be. Maka caught her breath a moment- the monster was missing another leg, so she had some time to get her heartrate down a bit. She coughed a little, clearing her throat of smoke.

"You good?" he asked.

"Mm."

"...So what's the plan?"

"Stand here."

"Alright then."

She liked that. They've been together so long that he wouldn't question her actions as much as he used to. If they're both quiet long enough, one could figure out what the other was thinking, anyway. Soul shifted fully into the scythe and Maka watched the pre-kishin lighting a fresh bundle of dynamite.

"Scoot up ehhh... fifteen feet," suggested his metallic voice. "Hurry."

Maka launched forward, left foot skidding into place and taking a swing with Soul as her bat to the explosive hurling at them. The hit was solid, but the overall effect was lackluster- the bomb exploding mid-air between them and the monster, knocking them all unbalanced.

Even so, as she was trying to gain back her equilibrium before the P-K does, Soul asked her if she had ever considered baseball instead of basketball, because she sucked a lot less at the former. Maka told him to shut up, taking them both into the air to hide in the still-clearing dust from the explosion. Hovering, her eyes watered from the smoke, but she kept one open at all times to watch for an opening.

Claws snapped at them from the murky clouds below, and Soul and Maka were caught up in a haphazard dance with these threats, their timing only just skilled enough to avoid major injury. They didn't need to speak, but one stray move would be the end of them. Finally, finally, the conditions were ripened enough to finish this stupid corn field battle, and Maka initiated resonance as they plummeted through the dust.

It was child's play after that. She felt Soul's intense satisfaction as he slid through the pre-kishin and carved it in two, his shining blade whistling through its flesh. She understood his fury, but knew it wasn't the same as being the weapon destroying a monster that had murdered those like himself. Monster in question screeched dismay and anguish as it unraveled into dark ribbons that fizzled like the fuses of its explosives.

Maka landed heavily to the ground, one knee into the warm, sizzling earth. Looking up, she was amazed to find their rental truck relatively unscathed apart from clods of dirt splattered on one side. Soul transformed into his body and helped her stand, the both of them turning to face what was left of the pre-kishin.

"Well that wasn't so bad," she sighed.

Something nagged at her about it all, though- that sizzling, crackling noise permeated the air and, upon closer inspection, wasn't coming from the ground as she had thought. As the smoke cleared from the destruction zone, she heard Soul's sudden intake of breath and felt her eyes sting, widening them and allowing more dirt to attack them.

At the base of the P-K's glowing, hovering soul were all the leftover explosives the monster had possessed, lit and hissing like a final 'fuck you'.

With the realization that the world was going to explode very soon, they both made a scramble to the rental truck, Soul swinging around the bed and Maka hurdling over the hood. They collided with each other on the other side, slid to the ground, and tried to both duck and shield the other, entangling their arms clumsily while Soul chanted a string of curses. Bodies tensed, they waited.

The explosion was only just.

_Shboof crackle crackle_

After an awkward moment of silence, she could nearly hear Soul blink. "Are you shitting me," he mumbled, face pressed against her shoulder. "I know if I look it's just gonna explode for real."

Maka lifted her head slightly, listening for a sizzling noise but hearing none. "We'll both look."

Slowly they unwound from each other and crouched beneath the driver's side window, cautiously peering over the edge. A thin stream of smoke was already dissipating from the now empty area. The air smelled of old fireworks.

Maka busted up laughing while Soul slid down the passenger door back to the ground, scoffing. "That was _stupid," _ he cried out, thumping his head on the metal door. Maka turned her back to the truck and slowly let herself down to the earth, legs shaky.

She slapped her dirty, gloved hands to her face and tiredly giggled. "I thought we were gonna die!"

Soul's voice reflected off the truck. "Shit, I did too." Just as she parted her fingers for her eyes to glance through, he leaned back to look at her, his shoulders still rising and falling with labored breathing.

"Was that before or after you thought it was gonna eat you?"

A pained, disgusted look crossed his face. "Yes," he simply said. She watched his eyes be drawn to her singed pigtail, or whatever was left of it. Soul's hand came up to toy with the end of it, wrist gently resting on her shoulder. "What happened here," he managed through a chuckle.

Maka snorted and shrugged, hands falling into her lap, high on the relief that they were still somehow alive for another day. "Maybe you can give me a haircut later, Little Knife."

"Nnrg," he half-heartedly growled, giving her a glare made weak by his lopsided grin. It was right around this moment, this degree of eye-contact, that something passed between them heavy enough to cast them both into silence. That was their talent: stay quiet long enough and they could figure each other out.

It didn't take more than half a minute before both of them were blushing without having said anything at all.

With a small smile on her face, Maka lightly pinned her partner's hand, still idly touching the ends of her hair, between her shoulder and cheek. Soul breathed a moment, slid free, and slowly caressed her neck with the backs of his fingers. His thumb grazed her chin tenderly but he didn't need to bother. She already knew- they both already knew what they were doing.

They were alive in a smoking, obliterated corn field in the middle of nowhere, and when Maka leaned forward into her partner's lips, he did not back away in surprise.

It was just a lingering peck. After, her forehead rested against his while her arms brought him into a tight embrace. Soul shifted his weight and scooted closer, one hand still light on her jawline. His fingers played with the small hairs on the back of her neck as he kissed her lightly in return. They traded this single kiss back and forth, then two, then more, like little statements that assured them both that each was glad the other was safe, each wanted to feel, to share the breath of the other.

He tasted kind of like burned toast but she can't imagine she tasted much better. It didn't matter. Their tongues met and he made the slightest moan in her mouth, and together these actions caused her to throw her weight into him until they rolled to one side, she straddling one of his legs, and he grasping her waist and pulling her closer. Soul's head slid against the truck door, drooping to one side as Maka kissed down his sweating neck. His hands wandered up her sides and down her spine, caressing across her skirt and the outsides of her thighs. She felt his thumbs hook into the edges of her stockings.

Maka pressed her body close, wanting to feel his lungs take in air and heart pound with rushing life. They had to be closer, their skin needed to be connected, their lips needed to be linked, and so the next kiss was rougher than the last. He ran his tongue along the inside of her upper lip and she caught this in her mouth and kissed that too.

His hips flexed up into her, straining hard-on flush against her thigh. She broke their kiss to watch his body react to her, dragging her leg against his crotch. He let out a ragged scoff and moved his own thigh trapped between her legs. It felt startlingly good, and she reared back to grind against him to find more of that satisfaction. This worked for about half a second before they both decided she should straddle him properly, Soul hooking a hand under her leg and spreading her to rest it around the outside of his.

Their heady grinding was an improvement, though Maka was too elevated to continue kissing her weapon. Soul took the opportunity to hungrily devour her exposed neck, instead. His tongue and lips tickled her sensitive skin and she worried she smelled like sweat and farmland and explosives, but his teeth sank into her flesh and she couldn't bring herself to care any longer about what she may smell like.

She wanted to touch him like he was doing, but she was forced to brace herself against the pickup truck to meet his hips angling into hers. Soul's warm palms slid under her charred shirt and caressed up her torso to briefly squeeze her breasts. Maka shivered, despite the sun beating down on her back.

"Could we get rid of this," he panted into her collarbones, never ceasing his movements under her.

Maka rasped out what might have been a 'yeah' and decided it was much too warm outside to be wearing so many clothes. She leaned back, loosening her tie, and gave Soul room to lift her uniform blouse up by the hem. The collar popped over her ears and messy hair, and her shirt was carelessly flung away to catch and hang off the side mirror of the truck. A faint breeze did little to evaporate the sweat on her skin, but goosebumps still rose as she watched her weapon's eyes travel her body.

Their gazes caught again and, after a moment's pause, her bra came off too. Soul's grinding stopped completely, paused, while his hands were sent to explore newer territory. She watched as he unknowingly placed the tip of his tongue to the corner of his mouth, his eyes intently trying to take in both her breasts at once but ultimately unable to. The pad of one thumb stroked the edge of her nipple for half a breath before his lips were on it instead.

Her moan surprised her, but not as much as his mouth on her flesh. One of her hands moved away from the truck to press the back of his head more firmly into her chest. Almost unconsciously, her hips began to move again, swiveling in Soul's lap and dragging a growl from him. His hands relocated from her sides to her ass, squeezing her firmly and directing her movements over him.

After some frustrated groans and pleasured sighs, he pulled his mouth away and rested his head on the door behind him. "Mine too?" he asked, a hand reaching to un-tuck his now messy, rumpled shirt from his pants.

"But your tie," she breathed out, laughing lightly at his eagerness.

"And that," Soul amended with a crooked grin, undoing the knot in his tie while she inched his shirt up to freedom. Soul jerked and jumped beneath her when her fingers made contact with his bared waistline. Maka noted this reaction with interest, but it occurred to her that she still had her gloves on. Quickly, she pulled her hand out of his shirt and, while he slid off his tie and began to work on his shirt buttons, she brought her hand to her mouth and pinched off each finger of her glove with her teeth, tugging her hand free to discard the worn leather.

Soul's hands were stalled at his third button. "That was hot," he murmured, tilting his head slightly to see her better through his hair.

Her shoulders hunched up just the slightest. "What? Why?" she asked, slithering her bare fingers under his clothes and committing the feel of his sweat-slicked abs to permanent memory.

He panted, hesitating, while his hands slowly restarted their task. "It, haah... it just is, trust me."

She was forced to blush at his attention, but was more intent on coercing more of those distracted noises from him with her palm. As she reached under his working hands, she looked to his face to gauge his reaction just quickly enough to watch his features contort into displeasure.

"Wah, _wait, what,"_ he hissed, and she froze, wondering what had gone wrong. Soul pulled in his stomach to shy away from her touch, which caused her to feel something at her fingertips.

"Oh! There's a-"

"S-stop that, haha!"

Maka tried not to laugh at her partner pretending to not be tickled as she pulled a feather out of his half-undone shirt. She spins the goose down between thumb and forefinger, choking on her giggling.

"The fuck. ...No wonder that was itching the whole damn time." Soul grumbled, shrugging out of his shirt and leaning back on the truck with a sigh.

"My poor, tortured weapon," Maka grinned, flicking the feather away and leaning closer to press their naked chests together. She was still chuckling when she said, "I'm sorry you got goosed."

"Pfft." Soul slowly nuzzled her throat, hands playing at the base of her arched spine. "That is _not_ what 'goosed' is." She felt his smile curving into her neck. "I'll live."

Maka rubbed their warm bodies together, burying the side of her face into his messy hair. "I like it when you're alive."

He placed his hands on her shoulder blades and pressed her closer, as if he couldn't get enough of her skin in his mouth. Maka quietly whimpered, listening to Soul was surely sucking hard enough to leave a mark. He kissed the tender spot when he finished. "Me too," he belatedly replied, hips tilting up like a reminder. His lips searched for her ear and gently mouthed the lobe. Voice gravelly, he whispered, "Why haven't we done this before, again?"

"I don't know," she moaned, frustrated with how much contact they shared but still feeling unsatisfied. "It wasn't _quiet_ enough."

His tongue paused along the curve of her ear. "Wha?"

Maka idly ran her hand along the back of his toned shoulders. "You know, if we sit still for awhile, we can figure each other out."

Soul leaned his head back further to look at her, bemused. "If we're quiet," he flatly questioned.

She smiled a little, heart thumping faster from seeing him gaze at her while so close to her naked breasts. She brushed a bit of his damp fringe off his forehead, nodding.

Maybe it was the lack of distractions out in obliterated farmland, but the briefest of eye contact had the matter settled. It wasn't telepathy- just keen observation of the body language of a person one has shared one's soul with, and by biting her bottom lip and seeing his glinting eyes wander her face, Maka could confidently say that they had both wanted what was coming for awhile. It only took her shifting her weight, knees uncomfortable on the ground, for Soul to act.

"Alright then," he said with his patented grin, answering a wordless plan and urging her out of his lap. They both stood and stumbled around, kissing and touching and blundering about for balance until Soul pulled away long enough to open the truck door. The rusty thing squeaked loudly, and he shot her a look that questioned her judgement on having picked such a lousy vehicle. His teasing didn't even register for her, though. The sun glinting off his shoulders and playing along his scar was enough to distract her. He held out a gentlemanly arm- at odds with the rakish tilt of his lips- indicating she get in the cab.

Maka didn't exactly get it, but her own shoulders were going to get sunburned if she stayed out topless much longer. She somewhat relished his eyes on her skin as she began to climb in behind the steering wheel.

"Ah," Soul interrupted. "Here. Face me."

Things made more sense as she swiveled around. Her legs dangled off the old bench seat and out the open door, parting her knees just the slightest as invitation. Her partner's familiar hands edged up her stockings and underneath her skirt. His fingers lightly snapped the elastic of her underwear.

"These now?"

The seat creaked under her hands as she lifted her hips. Soul eased down her panties, taking them across her thighs and down her shins and abruptly halting at her boots.

"Oops," she teased.

He leaned close to her mouth, growling as one hand grudgingly pulled off a boot. "Trying to be cool here, d'ya mind?" Maka pecked him on the lips and he huffed, ducking his head to hide a grin under his hair. Her other boot thumped to the ground, and her underwear finally removed.

It was warm outside, but it was warmer between her legs. She pinked at how much of a breeze could be felt due to her arousal. She parted her her knees further and dragged Soul forward, partially embarrassed, but mostly desiring physical contact again. Her legs wrapped around his hips, and she discovered they were at a perfect height, if only his pants were off.

He was kissing her again, lips and tongue and teeth tirelessly diverting her attention, but Maka did eventually find his belt buckle. He grunted, relieved, when his fly was undone as well and her hand gripped his erection through his boxers. Soul leaned away, fingers hooked on the truck's roof, and watched her alternately fondle him and shimmy his pants down his hips. He leaned to one side, toeing off a shoe and then the other, stopping halfway through to groan her name when she trailed her tongue up his chest.

As soon as his shoes were off, he looked torn between wanting to fully take off his pants and letting her continue massaging his dick. Reluctantly, he backed away from her reach long enough to hurriedly take off the rest of his clothes, stepping out of them and yanking off his socks. This was the moment they both realized she was seeing his penis for the first time, and he passed the awkwardness by hanging his pants off the side of the truck's bed, while she averted her gaze to her thigh-highs to contemplate if she should take them off too, but mostly to keep herself from staring too openly at his crotch. It didn't save her- the sight of him made her insides heat with a thirst that caused her to shift anxiously, thighs itching to close and grind together.

Standing in front of her once more, her partner lightly picked up her still-gloved left hand and brought it near his face. The action forced her to lift her eyes, which had probably been his plan all along. He locked her gaze, unable to fully keep the smirk off his face while he imitated her glove-removal trick, smugly catching each fingertip between his teeth and tugging.

She couldn't keep a straight face, nervousness abated, after he waggled his eyebrows, glove dangling from his absurd smile. "Give me that," she scoffed, blushing, and took the glove from him with her opposite hand, tossing it on the dashboard.

The hand he still grasped was then pressed to his chest. Maka's eyes were still caught by his as she felt his heated skin slide under her fingers. She watches as his gaze slowly hooded and darkened the lower he dragged her hand down his body, his mouth opening in a small sigh when her palm touched his fervent flesh for the first time.

He nudged forward with his body and her knees parted easily, giving way even wider to accommodate him. The warmth of the tip of him pressed against her wet folds and they both quaked, his hand holding hers in place to feel where they met. Soul's forehead came to rest on her shoulder, breath feathering down her collarbones. This was closer- they were almost connected enough to be satisfied.

Her breath caught when he angled forward, his length sliding up, caught between her slit and fingers. He moved again, teasing her with his dick. Eventually, he guided his hand away, and she took this to mean she had control over the situation. Amazed at how slick the both of them had become, and so quickly, little mewls slipped from Maka's lips with every pass, Soul's breathing harsh against her neck. With both hands free, he clung to her thighs, holding her in place.

She called out his name restlessly, and with another quiet agreement, he tilted her hips and let the smooth head of his cock drag across her entrance, catching for a moment before sliding away. Steadily, he continued this, prodding her gently and passing by as before. Her blood nearly ignited with how fiercely she craved for him to _get inside_, but being denied.

"Maka," he murmured against her neck, and with the next stroke she eagerly used her fingers to keep him at her center, guiding him. He hissed his way in, teeth latched to her skin.

Her arms snaked around his torso, fingers locked behind his neck as she gave a long, low whine from the sensation of her weapon's body entering hers. The tension building in her skyrocketed, Maka's body writhing of its own accord. Her hips gyrated, trying to inch him further inside.

Soul's chest rumbled with his wordless groans, his arms hoisting her legs higher to delve more deeply. She curved her back, looking between them just long enough to see the root of him buried between her thighs, before she loosened her grip on his neck and fell back on the creaking bench seat. Satisfaction filled her, knowing they were melded together. She cried encouragements as he began to thrust into her, the bench complaining with his efforts.

Soul loudly sucked air between his teeth, threading his arms under her knees and leaning forward, cock driving solidly into her. Maka clawed the edge of the seat to keep from being pushed to the other side of the cab, using the leverage to match his hungry rhythm. Together they rocked, sweat beading off his brow and moans tearing from her throat, the old truck's suspension pitching and reeling with their bodies.

The air in the truck was sweltering, her back was sticking to the seat, and her skirt was uncomfortably twisted around her waist. He seemed to sense her discomfort, or maybe shared it for his own reasons, because he strained down to sloppily peck the side of her mouth and disentangled from her, his thrusting only a slow, languid form of procrastination.

She tried to catch her breath but lost it again when he glided back inside her. She didn't ask what was wrong, though her worried face must have said it loudly enough. Soul only shook his head, one arm reaching along the floorboard and pulling something that clunks heavily. Maka squeaked when the whole seat moved to her left, her legs clamping around Soul's waist as the bench moved backwards. He looked kind of sheepish, trying not to laugh at her surprise.

"Make some room for me?" he asked, one hand disappearing behind him to lightly grasp her ankle and lift it away.

They resituated, Soul shutting the driver's side door and beckoning for her to sit in his lap. "Like before," he explained. The truck swayed as she crawled across the bench to him, weaving in front of the steering wheel and finding a place to rest her knees, which was hard to do with her weapon fondling her and taking sudden mouthfuls of sensitive flesh at random.

He helpfully held his cock upright for her to ease down on, whispering how good she felt on the inside. She couldn't raise herself very far without hitting her head on the roof, so she rocked into him, forward and back, feeling his dick move within her body.

They took advantage of their closeness, lips savoring each other and mouths swallowing moaned names. The truck began its swaying again, this time in a new direction from the bucking of her hips. Maka was spurred by desire beyond her control, wanting only Soul- his body, his skin, his breath, sweat, heat, and the pleasure that they shared- and rejecting everything else.

"Maka... Maka, I'm not- I don't have a- Maka, I'm gonna come -"

She knew. She couldn't form words at the moment, so he'd just have to trust her that it's fine. She grabbed his hands and placed them on her hips, his fingers immediately twisting in her skirt. Maka bucked harder, lacing her own hands through his damp hair and tugging his mouth to hers.

He let out a long groan along her lips, his palms grasping the flesh of her ass and moving her faster against him, jerking his hips into her with what little room he had. The force of him caused her to gasp and pull away from his kiss, hands seeking support. She had to brace herself, one hand on the door and the other on his tensed forearm, hips shuddering uncontrollably. Her blood finally ignited, sparks catching fire to her nerves.

Her ears were ringing, echoes of euphoria still bouncing within the confines of the cab. Soul was slowing down, arms moving to squeeze around her waist as he was overcome by his own orgasm. He came with her crushed to his chest, their skin slipping with sweat. Warmth flooded into her, and Maka could only mindlessly mirror her partner's moans, body quivering.

After a minute or so of heavy breathing, Soul's panting humid against her face, he sighed out, "God it's hot in here." He reached to the driver's door and attempted to crank the rusted, tarnished lever to roll down the window. The mechanism made a crunching, uncooperative noise, to which he cussed and opened the door instead, pushing it out with a foot and a grunt. The slight breeze from outside helped air out the cab, the peaceful sounds of leafy corn stalks rustling together the only noise apart from their still-labored breathing.

Slumped against each other, Maka felt her partner tense beneath her, his body still encased in hers. "Maka," he slowly started, "I'm sure it's kinda redundant, but I definitely came inside."

"I know."

"...Okay?"

She gently patted him on the arm. "We don't have to think up any names- I'm on the pill."

"OH. Oh. ...What? Since when?"

"Since, I don't know, at least the past two years," her mind trailed off, trying to remember the exact date while Soul slumped into the truck seat in relief.

"Well good, 'cause that... was **a lot** of come."

"It's too bad, though, I really thought 'Wesley' would be a good name for a baby, and-"

"Oh HELL no!"

She laughed at his abject horror, leaning back on the steering wheel and accidentally honking the horn. Soul then laughed at her own terror.

* * *

Maka couldn't stop sneaking sideways glances over at him never having seen her partner drive anything other than a motorcycle before. Also there was something about her toned weapon wrestling with the truck's distinct lack of power steering while shirtless.

"How the hell were you driving this damn thing?" he complained, turning on to the first paved road in two hours of travel.

"Is it too hard," she replied lightly. "I can take over if you want."

Soul scoffed and didn't bother responding, but in the quiet, they both knew what he was thinking. His mild annoyance with her big grin spread down his neck in a flush. Eventually, he finally threatened, "I'll take that shirt back, you know."

She already saw through his weak bluff, but her hand came up protectively over the buttons of his shirt she wore in lieu of her own- which had been sacrificed to the after-sex cleanup gods. "I wouldn't need it if you hadn't come so much," she said, face reddening but proudly getting the retort out.

He opened his mouth to defend himself, but his blush only travelled farther down his shoulders in his silence. He appeared to finally think up something, looking at her briefly to deliver his delayed comeback, and that was the moment Soul ran over a goose.

"OH MY GOD, SOUL!"

He continued to drive in a stunned silence for a few seconds, then chuckled. "I'm starting to like this truck."

* * *

END.


	4. Birds and Angels

Warning: sadeater, character death

* * *

Her tears bleed blue, pooling strangely in her hands, and as you peer at the unnatural saturation of color, you realize what's been done. She cries, fat tears rolling down cheeks that, in the real world, would be flushed brightly with red, but that color doesn't exist here anymore.

You're standing in the Room, an arm's length from her, and the ceiling breaks open. It's always been black up there— not really a ceiling so much as a hole, a window, a viewing port to the darkness of the universe where the stars have long since burned out, or perhaps had never been in the first place. Yet it cracks, long fissures running across what you'd always thought had been nothingness, down walls and through curtains like a photo slowly being torn, and you realize there had never been a ceiling or not-ceiling in this place, had never been curtains or tiles or pianos or gramophones, because it had always been an illusion of the mind, and blue washes away what doesn't belong.

Blue like the sky on hot summer days (sweltering days, filled with the drone of cicadas and the taut ringing of basketballs hitting melting asphalt), it peeks through the cracks in the ceiling. You wonder if this is the view from inside an egg, as birds and angels peck and claw from the outside to eat what's within. Shell fragments fly away from the room, discarded, dissolved, cleansed.

Far away, you hear screaming.

Black gives way to blue, her tear-filled eyes watching all that you are, pinstripes to scars, slowly dissolve. You reach out to touch her, because you know it will be your last chance to feel that powerful, too powerful wavelength thrumming under her familiar skin, but love pushes her another step back. To touch you is to hasten your end.

More of you is ripped away, giving in to blue skies. You wonder what your soul would have looked like, before the piano. You wonder if the sky outside the shreds of this illusion is part of what might have been, but you suppose you'll never find out.

The screaming is louder, and you realize it's yours, from your body that isn't and no longer will be, because you are leaving it. She touches you in that existence (or was that illusion, too?), screeching, pleading, because no, no, no, no, she loves you, come back. But you won't.

Her tears bleed blue, and it washes you away, too.

You smile with what's left of your face, hoping she knows you understand. "Game over, Maka," you quietly say.

Red and Black cease to exist. Your soul pulls apart and becomes nothing, as you become nothing.

You shouldn't have let her play so many notes.


	5. The title is too fucking long

This is a submission to the SoulMaka NSFW week presently being hosted on Tumblr. I'm sure you can guess what the prompt is. (PS, it's not penis size jokes)

I do not own Soul Eater, The Lonely Island, Inception-related internet memes, or Coolsville (if such a place exists).

* * *

**This Never Really Happens, You Can Take My Word**

* * *

You're staring at her legs when it happens.

Maka claps her book shut in mild disgust, and you jolt, pulling your eyes away from those shins and thighs and hurriedly moving them to her face.

"Soul."

Act neutral. No, act annoyed because she just made a loud noise and, under normal circumstances, you'd be annoyed and not wondering if you've just been caught staring at her legs. Pull out one earbud with a disgruntled look. "Hm."

"Have you made out with anyone before?"

You can't stop your face from scrunching up. You also don't want to get involved in whatever conversation she is trying to start, because all signs are pointing to you being unable to answer this without getting punched in the dick. You try to put your earbud back in.

"Soul! I'm serious!"

You sigh and close your eyes, the gleam of her legs burned in a colored after-image into your eyeballs. You pause your music. "Whyyy," you say, dubious. "Does it matter?"

"Yes, it matters." Fuck. It matters.

"Then I _really_ don't wanna talk. You'll just hit me or something." Her eyes narrow in warning. "See? It's that face. It means 'concussion'." You should probably stop talking.

Maka places her book to a side table in plain view, disarming herself. "Look, I just wanna know your opinion on it."

"On what," you blurt.

"Making out, I said!"

You fervently miss the life of yesteryear, of yester-forty-five-seconds-ago, when it peaceful and safe, when you could listen to some decent experimental jazz and fantasize about your meister's legs around your hips without immediate threat of death.

"My opinion? What's to think about?" You need to think of more words to say that make sense but also do not incriminate you. "It's ... it's _mouths_, I don't fuckin' know." Except you do know, but not why you have to explain it because it seems self-explanatory, or why the hell Maka Albarn is so confused about it.

"Is it worth the time investment, because it seems really awkward and gross."

You don't know what to say to this. You stall, scratching the side of your face. "Wh- ...Okay, I guess from a nerd perspective-" you're pushing your luck, "-that's kinda accurate-" good save, "-but you don't... It's not an investment, idiot. You do it because you _feel like it_, and... shit."

You never were very articulate, were you.

"So, it's pleasurable," she says, or asks, or states, like it isn't as self-explanatory as it should so very obviously be.

"Obviously!"

"I wouldn't know!" Her legs shift from the arm of the couch, where she'd been dangling them like the eternal cat toy wielded by a sadistic human over a feline for entertainment they are. Your eyes are glued. She doesn't notice, too focused on her tirade. "There's slobber and teeth and bad breath and it just seems like it wouldn't be nice at all."

The falling lilt of her voice is an effective solvent. Your eyes are freed. "It can be not nice, I guess," you admit, thinking of past girlfriends and how bored your non-fluttering heart had been while making out with them.

"You've had bad kisses," she says, or asks, or states.

"Well, yeah."

You have now fallen into interrogation mode, and you can not escape. "What made it bad?" she begins with, signalling the start of the Yes It Matters Inquisition. Slowly, you sink further into the couch. If you could become loose change and lint, you would die very happily.

"I just..." How will you explain this with neither getting punched in the dick nor turning Maka Albarn off to the act of swapping spit with someone else? "Why are we even having this conversation, seriously."

She has the grace to look slightly embarrassed. That, or she's sunburned from Spring Break, which is probably more likely. In any case, she dodges your question, because she is the Inquisitor. "What'd you do, bite someone?"

You snap upright, pennies and dust bunnies forsaken. "What? NO. " The nerve. She should give you more credit than that. "When you're not really into the person, it... might become like a chore. Maybe. Fuck, this is the _dumbest_ thing we've ever-"

"Let me kiss you."

You're not sure if inquisitors are allowed to demand such things. You're not sure if you're in the same universe as you were fifteen seconds ago, either. "W... do what?"

Your meister blinks, expectant.

"You're serious," you wheeze.

She rolls her eyes, looking at you with an expression that you know should belong to you: he who had been first in line at the Why Am I Explaining The Obvious To You ride. "You suck at explaining things, and I need to see it to understand."

_You_ need clarification. "You want me to make out with you," you say, or ask, or state.

Maka sits primly in her student posture, ready for a lesson. "Ye- Well when you put it that way it makes me sound..."

Yes, it does make her sound... like something. Something interesting. Something that places phantom legs around your hips.

"Okay, then, uhm." She taps her chin with the tips of her fingers. "I guess make out with the lamp."

"Fuck you, Maka," you say, and you'd say it again given the chance.

"What! That's reasonable, isn't it?"

"I'm not gonna make out with inanimate objects like an instructional video." It's true, you won't. "You're insane." She totally is.

"Well it's a lamp or me, take your pick."  
"Why am I not getting a choice, here?"  
"I just gave you two!"

You put your face into your hands and will yourself back to your normal dimension. It doesn't work. At the sound of her standing, you worriedly peek through your fingers. You are met with legs. You close your fingers.

"Look," she says, but you don't. "You don't even have to move. Just... just sit there. In fact, I prefer that."

The force of your scowl rejects your hands. "This's gotta be some kinda weapon harassment. Abuse," you complain, while simultaneously being compliant. She moves to stand in front of you, while you remain on the couch, staring at her face because her legs are Bad News, awaiting a deranged kind of knighthood so you can become Sir Accomplice of the Debasement of Making Out through Science and Logic, your bored heart suddenly suffering from decidedly not-bored palpitations.

"Shut up," says the Inquisitor. "I wanna see what it's like."

You want to ask 'why me', but when you think about it, watching Maka watch your mouth and gauging it with her unfathomable specifications, you imagine her asking (demanding) this of someone else. A black with white-striped head (or worse, _blue hair_) flickers in your mind, adding itself to this equation, and the sum prompts you to suddenly blurt, "_FINE OKAY_, come here. Shit, I can't believe I'm doing this."

She anoints you like one of those ever-sipping drinking birds, heat-transfer from the contact with your lips pulling her immediately away as if it had never happened.

The lateral distance between your skeptical eyebrows is something worth mentioning to record books. "What are you, a woodpecker?"

"Wh-what's that supposed to mean?" she says, trying to sound mighty. Her hair isn't blue enough for that, though.

What _do_ you mean? What is your reasoning behind complaining about a kiss you had been trying so hard to escape? Hadn't you been trying to weasel out of this situation a minute ago? Do you not recall the lost pocket change and lint you tried to assimilate with? Yet here you are: Knight of the over-analytical table of Queen Albarn the Nerdy, Albarn the Naive, Albarn of the Smoking Hot Legs clan, heir to your testicles' future annihilation. Do you want to make out with her or not?

You do, alright? Shut up.

"What the hell was that?" you accuse, fascinated by that 'sunburn' and how it reaches down her neck.

"Pointless," Maka mumbles, sounding equal parts uncomfortable and disappointed.

Finally, the both of you can agree on something.

"No kidding. Didn't even-" 'use tongue', you almost say, but some primitive aspect of your innate sense of self-preservation informs you that novel-induced brain damage is a very real thing, and if you push your luck any further, you'll be shoving it into the large, Mickey Mouse hands of Death.

Turn the tables.

"You have to enjoy it, dorkus. Here, like, just sit the fuck down in the first place."

As she sits on the couch, her legs fold up daintily beneath her, interlocked in ways you distantly wish were around your face. You situate yourself to face her.

Try your hand at sounding professional, for once, or at least not like you have no idea what it's like to kiss someone you've been attracted to since you were fifteen. "So, pretend for like half a fucking minute that I'm not a piece of silverware to you and that I'm human and have actual feelings." Well, that came out surly and annoyed, which is what you always sound like, so this is an acceptable compromise.

"It doesn't matter what I pretend, does it?" she says, petulant. "It's a chore if you're not... into the other person." As she speaks, her voice slowly goes quiet, soft, and above all things, _hesitant_, and you can't associate this with Maka Albarn without major headspace readjustment.

But more importantly, "Even making out with a stranger is better than what that peck was." The displeasure in your voice isn't feigned, either, because you still sting quite a bit from your meister's reluctance to do _chores_, even if she's the one who started this whole thing. It stings like tumbling down a razor-slide and splashing into a pool of saltwater, and as you think about how you're closest to her soul as a weapon but only her guinea pig as a man, you start doing the backstroke.

Maka bristles. It's kind of cute, like a blowfish, and also deadly to the nervous system, like a blowfish. She swims around with you in your Shot Down pool. "You should've done it with the lamp," she grumbles.

The lamp will never be so lucky, thank you very much. You attempt a sigh, because that's what cool people do when they are resigned to fate, because they do not do anything other than become resigned to fate- especially not things like wanting to drown after finding out through the worst demonstration ever that your meister isn't into you and would rather you make out with a lamp.

_It doesn't matter,_ she'd said. Fuck.

Lean in. "It's called affection, Maka. It's what a kiss is." Now put a hand on her knee. "It shows affection." Revel in its smoothness, its warmth. "Shares it," you say, somewhat distracted. Your heart is beating too hard and, fuck, it matters. You've made out with a handful of other girls before, some that look like her and some that look like the exact opposite of her and some that only look a little bit like her and also enough not like her that it only just accentuates how they aren't her, and on none of those (admittedly, seldom) occasions (you never were one for being on top of chores) has your skin ever threatened to take on a not-sunburn.

"Uh. I'm a dude." You are, that's true, good job. "You're a chick." She is, usually, when she's not skull-destruction on legs. Sometimes she's both though, and your heart won't stop giving a shit about that idea, for some reason. "Got it?"

Her eyes are focused intently on yours, and you wonder why she doesn't look half as reluctant and unwilling as a person should look when they've fallen into a situation of their own making that they've realized isn't as interesting as they hoped. You also wonder why she hasn't destroyed you for touching her leg, or even mentioned how your fingers have somehow reached for the fringe of her cutoff shorts, palm sliding up her thigh.

"Got it."

You wonder, as you meet her still, pliant lips, why you're so obsessed with her legs in the first place. In your head you may have named her as the queen of the Smoking Hot Legs clan, but critically speaking they're cankles at one end and intimidating quads and hamstrings at the other, frequently sporting some kind of heinous bruise from work, shins warped from multiple incidents of blunt force trauma, usually two weeks late for a shave, with the silliest combat boot tan lines imaginable. And yet you want them around your hips; around your face is also acceptable.

And you wonder why that is, but then again, you don't, because you already know why that is. And while you are busy musing things that need not be mused, those legs overtake you while your guard is down. Suddenly, your back hits couch cushions, world weighed by meister and legs and mostly legs because your meister is seventy percent legs, and those still, pliant lips are somehow slanting over yours. You realize the teacher is being taught.

Your heart is beating too fast.

She pulls away, but not before shyly seeking out your tongue. A glimmer of determination can be seen under the blush that can no longer pass for a sunburn in any universe, which you're kind of giddy about. You should regroup.

"That's, uh. An improvement."

"Thanks," she breathes, and you get the feeling you've been played, just a little. She takes the remaining earbud out of your ear. "You've been staring at my legs all afternoon."

You open your mouth in denial, but a 'yeah' comes out instead. The Inquisitor still has power over you, evidently.

"Why," she asks, prompting you to acknowledge that if there is ever a prime position to be in for an easy-access punch to the dick, you are in it. Her body shifts as you debate on what kind of answer to give her, and you find that both your hands have made a home on her legs. Glued, really. Glued with truth serum.

As your palms partially encircle each supple thigh, fingers testing the firmness of the flesh near that sacred place known as Booty, you almost blurt things, confess things that you wouldn't admit to yourself five minutes ago: like how you can't _not_ stare at her legs, because they're always, always in your sight no matter how you try to ignore them, and you often wonder what they feel like against you when you're not trapped in demon steel, much like this, actually- thanks for solving that mystery.

But you don't say any of that. You say something much worse.

"'Cause they're yours, probably."

Your name is Soul 'Eater' Evans, Deathscythe of Mickey-Mouse-Handed Death, himself, and you are a square. Turn in your leather jacket; you won't be fooling anyone with that. Leave your Harley at the front gate on your way out of Coolsville.

Your meister places her hands on your chest, her palms a stethoscope you can't escape. She's close enough for her breath to fan across your face. "That was my first kiss, you know. And second." One leg twitches slightly in your grasp. Congratulations, you are now aroused.

The weight of her stretched across your hips is distracting. Or motivating. "Can I have the next one?" you ask, pulse thudding in your ears.

She graces you with the briefest of smiles. The dusty green of her eyes seems to deepen from within, a tone that makes your jeans feel a little less comfortable.

"Depends if you're into me, I guess. Are you?"

You don't think twice. You don't even think once. Craning up your neck to kiss her, your hands hold her body flush against you as you give her one meaningful grind of your hips. She gasps in your mouth, and your head falls back to the couch.

"A little bit, yeah," you say, the corner of your lips steadily approaching Smirk.

Maka huffs, immediately causing you to go slack-jawed when she cautiously, deliberately shifts over your dick. Yes, she's fully aware of what she's doing to you. You have forgotten who is in charge of this inquisition. "Just a _little_ bit?" she fishes, and her teasing, twerpy grin makes you burn, burn, burn.

You glower from beneath your meister. You're defensive as hell. "Big," you deadpan. "_Huge_, even. A huge bit."

"You're blushing."  
"Says the walking sunburn."

In an effort to not talk about how red she is, she initiates her fourth kiss with you. It is a relatively chaste thing when compared against her wriggling body attempting to ignite your jeans via sexually frustrated friction. Kisses five through ten do, in fact, become the conglomerate entity known as Making Out, and it's the sweetest of victories.

It doesn't feel like a time investment, though there is some slobber and teeth and mouths involved. There's also hair in your face and an uncomfortable hard-on, but the sound of her voice in your ear as you kiss across her jaw and find her neck makes up for it. Her delighted squirming prompts you to push her back for kisses eleven through whatever, switching your positions.

You are now fondling your meister on your living room couch. Your hands skirt along her taut torso, mapping out wiry muscles and pretty girlflesh. You are Soul 'Eater' Evans and she is Maka Albarn, and together you are battle-ready in a blink of an eye, and this talent of yours appears to be applicable to other aspects of life, because you've gone from making out to dry humping in under two minutes.

Pulling away from her swollen lips, you try to get your scrambled brain back in order. You've just had her first kiss, as well as her second through eleventh kisses (plus some remainder). Perhaps you should slow down there, Sparky.

Your meister either does not agree with you, or your sudden halt in rubbing against her warm crotch does not agree with her. Two fingers claw into your shirt collar and tug you down.

"Kiss me," she says, and you do.

She reminds you with her tilting hips that you are not paying proper attention to her. Her legs hook around your body and as the universe aligns with a near prophetic clarity, and you groan incoherently into her mouth.

Your hands are magnetized to those thighs. You caress and grope, extrapolation and prophecy merging into one relentless idea from which you can't alter or escape, because you can't get enough of her neck between your teeth, can't get enough of the sound of your name moaned in her voice, captive to the addicting squeeze of her legs wrapped around you. You press yourself so deeply between them that you and Maka both may yet become assimilated with the lost change and dust bunnies hidden in the couch cushions.

Her fingers sift through your hair, her skin trembling under your lips, the sacred lands of Booty now in your hands as you force the both of you together, grinding into her cutoffs. Press your forehead into her shoulder and say her name. Feel your scalp sting with the urgency of her grip. Crash your hips together. Fail to control the fire in your blood when Maka, your meister, your partner, a chick whom you are now making out with, finds pleasure by rubbing her pussy on you.

Your neck is nipped by her teeth, prophecy becomes truth, and you come in your pants like a boy who has never kissed someone he's been attracted to since he was fifteen.

You are mortified. Well, you feel a bit relieved- that one's been backlogged for a couple of days- but still. You feel like you've just woken up from a wet dream (and maybe you have yet to wake up from this one, like some weird dream within a dream, like the dumbest of jizz-in-my-pants-ceptions), and you're still involuntarily shuddering when the High Inquisitor asks the inevitable.

"D-did you..." she says, the rubbing of her hips slowly coming to a stop.

You swallow thickly. "A little bit." A lot. A huge lot. It feels kind of gross and nostalgic all up in your boxers. You pant into her neck, because you're not cool enough to sigh in resignation at your own lack of coolness. That is against the rules of Coolsville, of which you are no longer a resident.

She kisses your shoulder, but she shifts anxiously beneath you, still suffering from girl-arousal and _not_ suffering from premature ej- no, you can't think of that word right now. You refuse.

Wobbly, you pull away from her, cataloguing her not-sunburn and all the far lands it reaches on her body. Her shirt is twisted and askew, and the width of her hips is defined by the stretch of her shorts. Her eyes read both pleased and nervous, both relieved and bothered, and you get what is possibly the best idea you will ever have in your entire life.

"Let me kiss you, Maka?"

Her teeth catch on her bottom lip and she gives you one slow, expectant nod.

You unbutton her cutoffs and slowly grin, your hands skimming down her glorious legs as you peel off her clothes.

* * *

Marsh: Special thanks to VictoriaPyrrhi for being as perverted as I am, and also coming up with the title.


	6. Shut Your Eyes And Sing To Me

He's covered the complimentary alarm clock with one of your socks. The microwave is unplugged. The slight crack under the door is blocked with his pants. What should have been the full moon is now only a shadow that casts even darker shadows over the night, the hotel room that much more pitch than the blood had ever been.

He comes to you in this darkness, murmuring against your wrist— the one part of you he's found blindly.

_"Caught ya,"_ you feel more than hear.

The bed caves under his knees and hands, but he does not touch you. Your eyes are wide open but you can't see the faintest hint of him. If you searched for his soul you know you would find it— maybe taste what's on his agenda. But you don't. He likes to pretend he's nothing but disembodied fangs, craning low to nip at your shoulder. You like to pretend, too.

You recall how he'd looked, today: razor sharp eyes glinting at your mission target, hungry for his future meal. It's easy to transpose. You rub your feet together with giddy impatience, your skin tight and chill and electric.

His hands are cool on your heated skin as if he's steel and flesh at once, and he brings your hands to a point behind your head. He gently molds your fingers around a slat in the hotel headboard. You grip it like you've been superglued.

(In the beginning, he would use a necktie— usually yours— but he likes it better when you're bound by your own willpower.) (Though, rather than 'willpower' he calls it 'stubbornness', but the end result is the same— you're wet and you've become so faster than seems humanly possible.)

His hands disappear into the pitch and all you get is the fringe of his hair ghosting across your belly as a precursor to wet warmth searching for your navel. His tongue dips in and you choke on a tiny squeal because it tickles and it doesn't tickle at all.

"I wanted to fuck you so much today," he says softly, a pleased note in his voice painting the filthy grin you see in your mind. His breath washes across your hips and you squirm.

"I could tell."

Soul hums a question mark in such a way that it's clear he's not questioning anything because he already knows the answer. "Were you disappointed?"

That tongue traces the curve of your right hip and burns along your thigh. "W-when?"

He pinches your skin with his teeth at your answer. "You know when," he rumbles. "Where were we today, Maka?"

Your breath quickens as you feel his hands grip down your sides, fingertips firmly dragging across your thighs and clamping around your knees. His touch is warmer now— less steel and more flesh and blood and kindling flame. He eases your legs apart. You give him no resistance. You can smell yourself.

"That bookstore," you whisper— that store in the heart of this city, where your target had been scheduled to make a delivery and subsequently kidnap another victim to devour. The both of you had camped out in the tourism section for an hour beforehand.

"'That bookstore'," he repeats, grin still in his voice. "Where you came all over my hand."

He'd been so cheeky about it, too, idly commenting on a sightseeing book of Belgium on the shelf. _'__There's a museum of 'erotica' over there, you know. Like a history of fuck.'_ Then he loudly announced how there was a four-dong poster bed, and the aisles around the tourism section had vacated while your face steamed in embarrassment and anger.

And that's when he snuck his hand under your skirt, teasing your backside with his nails, mouth murmuring dirty things on the nape of your neck. You had thousands of books at your disposal to smack him with, but you did nothing. You were on duty. You were in public. And yet.

"You… h-_hah_— You ripped my stockings," you half-heartedly complain.

"I'll buy you a hundred of them," he says after giving a thick lick to your slit. He hums again, this time savoring the taste. "Something 'bout you coming next to a shelf of books is too much to pass up. You know what this means, right?"

You really wish he would stop trying to engage you in coherent conversation with his lips on your clit. Your eyes clench tight, calling on higher brain function. _"__What,"_ you gasp out.

"We're gonna have to do it in the library. Restricted section. Behind the counter."

What does it say about the drive of a man when he plans a sexual encounter before the present one is even completed? "Do you have a death wish—"

He distracts you for a good minute and thirty seconds, suckling on your folds and tracing your entrance with his tongue. "Or maybe a day you have duty," he says while you attempt calmer breathing patterns. "Organize books and _ride my face_ while everyone else is studying."

Your eyes snap open in surprise, but it's still too dark to see anything. "Wh— your ffuh—" you breathe, trying to comprehend what he's suggesting while fingers spread you wide. _"Nnm!"_

"I'd do it in a heartbeat. Have you rub yourself all over my mouth—" He punctuates this by licking deeply into you. You've seen that tongue wrap around corrupted souls a hundred times (Two-hundred and seventy-seven, in all truthfulness, but that number escapes you right this moment). Your voice escapes you as your nerves spark and push you further into frenetic arousal.

"Anyway. Were you disappointed?"

The bed frame creaks in your strangulating grip. "Is this… a trick question?" you manage. It's accidental, but you sense his small bit of pride in how you're still able to smartass at this stage in the game. You abruptly lose all sensation of him, Soul abandoning his station between your legs and hovering somewhere in the darkness.

His voice dips low, resonating in your ear. _"That I didn't fuck you against the shelf."_

So much of your body shifts and writhes involuntarily at the heat in his words. You can't help but picture it: uncracked spines and harsh shelving digging into your back with your weapon's arms lacing under your legs, hoisting you up and holding you still as he both takes you and gives himself. You ache. You try to save face.

"We couldn't have, in public-"

Soul interrupts you because he knows better, and if you didn't know better you'd accuse him of having Perception. "Don't lie to me," he says gently, face nuzzling near your ear. "You wanted to risk it. _Maka Albarn_ gettin' caught in a bookstore with her legs wrapped around me and coming all over my dick."

You moan incoherently, feeling his erection prod your abdomen. It leaves a chill spot in it's wake, his own arousal cooling on your skin. You try to tilt your hips to meet him, but he moves out of reach and nips at your jaw.

"Tell me."

It comes from you, a voice that seems not yours and yet never more yours, hoarse and dark and true. _"Yes,"_ you say, your body bucking into the empty darkness, searching for your personal devil whom you trust more than anyone on this earth, whom you want more than anyone on this earth.

"Yes, what?" He presses, sotto voce, his insistence more intense and raw— he's not drawing this out to tease you anymore, searching for something vital to tip the scales of his own stubbornness in this game.

Inner thighs slick and burning, you seek his mouth with your own, hoping your words will magnetize his lips to you in the dark. "Yes, I was disappointed—"

_"Because?"_

The one word helps you zero in on his face, twisting your head and craning your neck to feel his breath curling around your lips. When you give him what he wants, you feed him directly; every silent desire, every fantasy you had today falls from you and into his mouth in nearly silent whispers.

Soul goes deathly quiet, the only sound in the room coming from your hissing breath and your shifting body. _"Because I wanted you,"_ you whisper. _"I wanted you to take me against a shelf or bend me over a chair,"_ you whisper. _"To take __you against a shelf, or in the alley behind the store— to suck you until your knees go weak and you beg for me."_

He groans and kisses you roughly, his hands on either side of your face to hold you still and eat your secrets. You keep whispering even when he pulls away, every admission piling up into a mountain that makes him tremble. You tell him how you wanted him to do it, slacks still clinging to his hips as he enters you, how you love it when he plays with your clit while he takes you from behind. When you tell him about the moment after killing their target, watching him chew that corrupted soul and how you would do anything to feel his teeth on you, on every part of your body, your secret either inspires pity or breaks him.

Soul caresses your arms and peels your hands off the headboard, holding them carefully and bringing them to his mouth. He nips at a knuckle, then takes the pad of a thumb in his teeth, carefully tugging.

"I wanted to rip your clothes off the moment we checked into this room. I wanted you to join me in the shower, to fuck me against the wall and make me come so much I can't—"

Your hands catch the moan that stutters from him. As he slides them down his body, you feel his pulse fluttering, his blood dancing in his neck and pounding under his chest.

"I love it when you talk dirty," he drawls. _"See what it does to me?"_ And he wraps your hands around his cock. You can't see, obviously, but you feel him twitching in your grip as you map the familiar shape by touch.

You are keenly aware of the heady anticipation straining from him, from you, from the pits of your souls. You want to let it out, to mercilessly claw through skin and bone for relief. "Put it in," you urge. "All the way in. Please? _Do it."_ You want him to grind you down, shake you up with his hips, force the breath from your lungs, hear him howl when you clench around him.

You're still as he moves over you, nerves nearly vibrating with need as he wedges between your legs, your chests sliding together. A moan escapes you from the pressure of his weight; from the sudden, sheer amount of contact. Hips tilting to help align with him, you tremble as he sinks into you, growling your name with gratification.

You smile.

"Caught ya," you say, linking your ankles behind him, your legs locked around his sides. A noise rumbles through his chest as you pull him deeper into you. "And I want to see your face when you come, Soul Evans," you vow, pulling your sock off the complimentary alarm clock and triumphantly capturing the filthy grin you knew he had all along.


End file.
